


a father, a fate

by Timeskipped



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Act 3 spoilers, Character Study, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, can you call it a character study if it’s for the character we’re supposed to project onto? lmao, found family is more important than blood family :), izumi-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27717488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timeskipped/pseuds/Timeskipped
Summary: Yukio returns to Veludo Way; Izumi chokes down her feelings until she can’t anymore.
Relationships: MANKAI Company & Tachibana Izumi
Comments: 16
Kudos: 76





	a father, a fate

This is what hurts the most: the way Izumi’s mouth goes dry, and the way the only thought left in her mind is, desperately, with all the hopelessness of a young girl who knows her father will never come home, _why did you leave us?_

Except that she knows, now. In a way, she can even understand. She wants to forgive him, like how the original members of Mankai talked about him with smiles in their eyes, but—

It was a sinking realization, curling deep inside her gut, whenever she saw them like that, with the knowledge that they knew him, and she did not. That he spent time away from their family and rarely coming home to be with _them_ and not _her._ The emotions shift bitterly into hatred because for a young Izumi, that was _normal,_ knowing that her father coming home was a luxury and not a given, because he was—what? In love with theater?

Yukio was infectious, and it hit Izumi’s heart head on even as a child. Her father’s gentle hands, pulling her into the world of theater; the way that that was the only warmth she got from him, _really,_ and half of it must’ve been the bright warmth of the spotlight, that shining feeling building until it burst, instead of coming from the man himself.

Where did Yukio go? And why? For teaching theater to someone else’s children? For the selfish desire for a new start, and a lack of a mark on his company?

And Izumi—what is Izumi to him?

_Why didn’t you tell me anything, Dad? Why didn’t you stay? Why was I left chasing acting, even when I knew it had always been yours rather than mine?_

Reni calls her stubborn. Izumi thinks she’s just _sad._ Mourning the death of something she’s not sure she even had in the first place. A puzzle piece from a misplaced puzzle, never to find its place. So Izumi watches from the sidelines, rather than actually speaking to him.

Inside her, a girl searches for the father she lost. Back then—back when she gave up, back when her mother lied and said she didn’t know anything, back when she could barely stand to think about her father’s theater company (“It’s being taken care of, Izumi. It’s not our problem.”) and naturally, back when she got a letter telling her to go there, when the bitterness had mostly washed away.

Izumi finds herself making curry. She knows that this won’t make her father go away, won’t fix the broken pieces of _this,_ whatever this is.

“Izumi.” Masumi’s voice pops up beside her. She closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to deal with this right now.

(There was a moment where Masumi told her about his father, how he confessed, maybe not in the exact words, that he wanted to do everything for his parents, just to make them pay attention to him. Izumi’s heart had clenched, but she’d swallowed it down to help him, instead of turning it over in her mind as she should have, wondering if the reason it hurt so much was because it’s what she’d felt, once, too.)

“...You’re welcome to have some curry, Masumi,” Izumi says, trying and failing to inject her usual cheer into her voice. “Please. I made more than needed, even with all the people we have coming. They…” Their faces flash in her mind. Kind men who used to admire her father. She can feel her lips twitch.

“Izumi.”

“Ah, if you don’t want to get it yourself, I can bring it to you. Go. Sit down,” Izumi says, and it comes out more on the side of pleading.

“I understand,” Masumi says softly, and gently pushes her to move aside, taking the spoon and dishing out some curry. Izumi softens at his words. “I… I didn’t know. That your father left you, or whatever he did.” His eyebrows draw down, but it looks more confused than angry. “If he hurt you, I’ll kill him.”

There’s a burning behind Izumi’s eyes. She smiles. “Of course you didn’t know. I’m not going to burden a kid like you with this.”

Masumi looks at her for a long time. His eyes really are just innocent, but protective, and something in them shifts as his eyes widen. “I think I’ve been seeing you wrong,” he mumbles, and swiftly walks away, head tilted away from her so she can’t try to decipher his expression.

The lump in her throat stays even as he goes. The lump that says that Mankai is her family, and they’ll protect her, no matter what that means.

This is how Omi finds her: leaning her full weight on the counter, head in her hands, the curry still on the stove even though the heat is off. She hears him take a breath, and then feels his hands on her shoulders. When she looks up, she can see how his frown turns downwards.

“Are you okay?”

Izumi nods. It’s a lie. All she really wants right now is to be surrounded by her family—her _real_ family—but they’re all out doing things. Important things. Going about their lives unburdened by Izumi’s crushing knowledge that her father is back, for the first time in her life, for the first time since she was in high school. The empty spot in family photos, the empty seat she pretended would’ve been filled by him, smiling at her and laughing as he always had when he came home.

Wish fulfilment stings; all she wants is to feed her curry to her father, and maybe he’ll mention that it’s similar to how her mother made it, grasping for that impossibility, because Izumi has refined her mother’s recipe until it’s unrecognizable, split into a hundred different curries served over a hundred different days.

And, frankly, if Yukio tells Izumi he’s proud of her for being a good director, or helping her actors bloom, she’s going to be sick. And the idea of blooming her actors, that’s his, too, a phrase she’s adopted from him, one she’d loved as a child and has turned into her own. She’s always wanted to bloom, but she’d never thought he’d be able to see it. She’s not sure he’d see it even if he looked her in the eye today.

Izumi starts to cry, silently. Her breath catches, and she tries to muffle it behind a hand. Omi doesn’t stop her, but he does take her into his arms, hugging her tightly.

(What was that he told her, once? That he made food for them because he loved them?

Izumi is reminded of eating her mother’s curry. Always her mother’s, because Yukio wasn’t very good at anything except acting, and her mother knew it. She never complained, but Izumi later learned that her mother and father had been having issues privately for a long time. Izumi almost didn’t believe it, except when her mother seemed happier once Yukio was gone.

Izumi wonders if her mother made curry for them in order to show a secret love, or if that love was never for Yukio at all, and all of it was poured into Izumi until she didn’t even realize that Yukio’s absence stung until it was too late.)

Why is her father coming back into a life she’s made for herself? Sure, she started acting because of her admiration for him, and yet he doesn’t know her at all, not really.

Everyone who knew him keeps saying that they’re similar, and maybe they are, in their recklessness or drive or _whatever_ has pulled them both so tightly towards theater, made it a home for them that they never want to leave, even if it means abandoning everything else as they’re pulled towards the stage.

Because for Izumi, learning that Mankai needed her was like the light at the end of the dark tunnel of constant rejection. It was a chance to be in theater, even if not as an actor. She readily shed her other responsibilities, the acting she wasn’t fit for, to take that role.

But Yukio… Yukio left his _family_ for acting. That fact sits heavily in Izumi’s stomach.

“It's okay to not be okay,” Omi says, rubbing circles on her back. She’s shaking, but as he speaks she tries to focus on the comforting sensation. “Remember, we’re here for you. You mean so much for us, and you’ve done so much. You can take a break from being the strong one. We’re here for you. No matter what, we’ll be here for you.”

He repeats it until Izumi stops crying.

* * *

The balcony air is crisp, the beginning of autumn taking hold of the world around them. It makes Izumi think of Autumn Troupe’s last play, which didn’t have anything to do with the season in particular, but now she has years full of memories to pull out of her pockets, troupes encompassing all four seasons.

When she left the party, it was for solace and escape. The only one who’d visibly taken notice of her leave was Muku, who waved at her kindly and smiled a sparkly grin.

Before that: Hiro was telling a story, and the whole company was listening, Yukio’s eyes shining and wide, amazed at the detail Hiro put into it. Tenma scoffed at several parts, and Yuki rolled his eyes. “He’s definitely embellishing,” he said. Itaru had shrugged, Tsumugi had laughed.

Izumi stole one of Itaru’s sodas from the fridge before she came out here. She wonders if he’ll be mad about it later. But she’d been wanting something fizzy and sugary, and it was either taking from Itaru or taking one of Taichi’s—something about that didn’t feel right, not when he also had to face someone he has a difficult past with; she hasn’t seen him, but Reni had been invited. She’s sure he’ll come.

The soda is too sweet.

“Izumi,” Tsuzuru’s voice calls out, and his pudding-like hair pops out from behind the door. He heaves a sigh when they meet eyes. “Ah, you’re here. Yukio was looking for you.”

“Dad was…”

The soda can clinks against the table, liquid sloshing around within it’s metal walls. She stands too quickly, even as Tsuzuru steps out, shaking his head. His hand meets her arm, and she realizes how cold she is with short sleeves. She should’ve worn a sweater.

She’s digressing. She doesn’t want to think about her father.

“It’s fine, he’s not going to be mad if you don’t show up,” Tsuzuru says. “He just asked about you, and I started wondering where you’d gone too—you look tired. I’m sorry for trying to bring you back.” He doesn’t push her back into her chair, the one he usually sits at to write, but he nudges her in that direction nonetheless.

“I should still go,” Izumi says, though her shoulders slump as she sits back down. “I have so much to ask him that I still haven’t gotten the chance to. Plus… He’s back. It should be about _him._ ” It’s always about him, somehow. This gathering was only made possible because Yukio coming back was enough to make even busy people like Hiro or Syu return.

Tsuzuru shakes his head again, sitting across from her. “It’s about the company as a whole, you know. Reni came late, by the way, I don’t know if you saw from up here. Syu immediately gravitated towards him, and took several Winter Troupe members with him, since he’d been talking to them about how he runs his own troupe. Sakuya, too.”

Izumi smiles. “Sakuya loves theater so much.”

“Yeah…” Tsuzuru sighs through his nose. He leans back in his chair, and the light behind him almost makes his brown hair look gold. “I think that goes for most of us, though. And it’s because of you. Not Yukio— _you’re_ the director now. Mankai Company wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“Thanks, Tsuzuru. That means a lot.”

Still, though, Yukio is important as more than Mankai’s founding director. He’s her father, and the thought of interacting with him after all these years is stranger than she can explain. It still feels like a dream.

It’s like the hazy memories of her childhood; a summer spent in this very building, running around and trying to play with the actors. She doesn’t remember it well, but it burns hot inside of her. Her father had shined brighter than she can remember him ever doing again. Something in Mankai had turned him into a walking sun, and even though she _understands_ —she really does—it feels _unfair._

She wonders if he actually cared for Mankai—but she immediately answers that question for herself; of course he did, or else he wouldn’t have left to save them. Or else he wouldn’t have remade a similar theater overseas.

The other theater was probably important to him. Maybe he’ll go back to it.

She was being honest when she told Tsuzuru that she has a lot to ask Yukio. About his plans for the future, and what it means that he’s stepped foot back in this country. Her mouth feels dry, and Tsuzuru’s bright eyes follow her as she stands.

“I have to see him,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t run away from this.”

Izumi has never been good at running. She hadn’t run from theater, even when she was told to turn her back on it, and she hadn’t run when Mankai— _her_ theater company, not Yukio’s, she reminds herself again—was given countless challenges. She’s been a supporter of her actors from the beginning, and she’ll continue, even if it kills her.

She has to believe that.

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” Tsuzuru says, smiling kindly. He picks up her soda and hands it to her. Cold condensation is wiped away by her fingers as she takes it.

She nods as she goes, downing the rest of the fizzy liquid while stepping down the stairs. She’ll stop by a trash can, probably the one in the kitchen. She wonders if any of her curry is still there, or if it needs to be reheated, or maybe Omi packed it up already, or—

Maybe Yukio is there. Her heart clenches. She wants to have a relationship with him, since he’s finally back, but this bitter awkwardness keeps creeping back in.

What would she tell an actor who confided a similar situation with her? What did she tell Masumi when he was forced to see his father, who he hadn’t seen in so long? She’s blanking. She can’t remember anything that would fit into her life and complete the puzzle that is the Tachibana family.

A lot of people are in the lounge. It feels alive, even after the sun has set and the lights have been flicked on; when she’d left, the sun had still been painting the lounge orange.

Izumi finds Azami and Kumon in the kitchen as she drops her empty soda into its proper place.

She smiles even as Azami eyes the can with mild distaste. “You know that stuff’s bad for your skin, right?” he says, but she’s sure it’s more of a token complaint than a real one.

“Once in a while isn’t bad,” she shrugs. “Besides, I’m not an actor. Worry more about each other and less about me.”

Kumon and Azami share a look. Kumon shakes his head. “You’re important too. That includes your skin! Right, Azami?” He nudges Azami with his elbow. Azami nods firmly and immediately, so Kumon turns back to Izumi. His eyes are bright. “What are you doing now? We ate some of your curry—it was great!”

A little cheer finds its way into Izumi’s heart. “Do you want me to make it again?! I’d love to do that for you!” Her expression softens. “Later, though. I’m going to find my dad and ask him some stuff.”

“Good luck,” Azami says, “he was being shown around the dorms when I last saw him.” Izumi is struck by the fact that Azami, like so many other Mankai members, also has trouble with his father. Izumi knows that they worked it out, and that it’s vastly different from Izumi’s problems, but remembering that gives her a bit of courage that talking to Yukio will at least give her _something,_ even if not what she used to crave during her father’s absence.

She’s a different person, and so is he. She’ll just have to live with that. Still, she thanks Azami for the well wishes as she goes. She doesn’t feel quite as stuck, even though the interaction was short. Her actors really are a family to her, soothing the hurt in her soul.

Azami sighs at Kumon as she exits the kitchen. “The others will be mad about you encouraging her to make more curry.”

“No they won’t! We all love her curry, um, in moderation. Besides… She seemed a little down earlier…” Kumon’s voice fades as Izumi steps further from the room. She smiles to herself.

She finds Yukio, not around the dorm rooms like Azami implied, but sitting in the lounge. Whoever was taking him to look around seems to have left his side, but the lounge still has quite a few people in it. Misumi and Kazunari are fiddling with Kazunari’s phone, talking loudly, and Guy is leaning against the back of the couch to look over their shoulders. Zen and Kasumi talk to Homare, too, but Yukio is alone.

“Dad.” Izumi plants her feet firmly on the ground as she approaches him. She doesn’t make herself smile.

Yukio looks up. He’s tapping on his phone, but pockets it as she appears. “Izumi. I was wondering where you were—I haven’t really been able to ask about how it’s going for you lately. I know I asked about the theater, but what about you?” He’s smiling. There are wrinkles around his eyes which crinkle when he does; they weren’t there in Izumi’s memories of him.

“I, uh,” Izumi can feel something inside herself crumbling. It doesn’t feel right. “I’m… fine. Just, fine.”

 _Fine_ doesn’t encapsulate the entirety of Izumi’s feelings. Izumi is a lot of things, but _fine_ doesn’t nearly communicate the storm inside her chest, or how it feels like they’re strangers, or the way she can’t articulate how she feels about it. She was a _high schooler_ when he left, when her hands grasped air instead of whatever love he wanted to leave her with.

“That’s good,” he says. He reaches up to smooth back his own hair. “Anything good happen recently?”

“The theater,” she starts, and instantly feels like a coward for going back to talking about work. It’s too easy to drift back to the things she loves, and the thing she knows he actually cares about. (Because he doesn’t care about her, is that it?)

His eyes light up. The words are stuck in her throat.

“What is it?”

“Th-the theater has definitely changed a lot.” She bites the inside of her cheek. “Because I’m different from you.” Somehow, her voice doesn’t wobble on the last sentence.

Yukio laughs. “I’m sure you are! Do you want to tell me about it? I’d love to hear about all the directing you’ve done. That reminds me, you were only an actor before you joined, right? Did you settle in well? Was it hard to start out?”

“...Yeah,” Izumi admits. “I read a lot of guides, and talked to some of my old directors. Actually,” she sighs, “maybe we should go out somewhere. I don’t really…”

She trails off. It’s not that she doesn’t want to talk about this when any of her actors could come in and realize that she started as a beginner. It’s true, but she’s sure that Spring Troupe, at least, _knew_ that she was staying up late marking off blocking and reading guidebooks. Especially when Tsuzuru was constantly scriptwriting; when the students were at school and Itaru at work, she would lock herself away to call people for directing help, undisturbed by Mankai’s only troupe at that time.

More than once, she’d thought that if she could just call her father for that help instead, it would all be easier, and the learning curve would smooth out a bit. Sure, she had _acting_ experience, and she knew generally how she was supposed to direct, but it was still _hard._ There’s no embarrassment in that fact. If anything, there’s _pride,_ even when Citron gently tried to pull her away from it to relax after practices.

She’s not sure why she wants to leave with her father. There’s no reason to have a conversation about directing in a place outside Mankai, except that she feels like maybe she could breathe easier with the knowledge that her actors wouldn’t see her if the memories of her lonely childhood end up becoming too much to bear. She’s not sure what to tell him.

“You’re an adult now,” he says, “so we could go drinking. I’m sure at least some of the bars around here are still the same.”

“That sounds good,” Izumi tastes the words on her tongue carefully. She wants to know her father, and something like sitting in a bar will force her to face him head on. It’s what she needs. Probably. “I could show you somewhere we go.”

“We?”

Izumi watches him stand. “The Winter Troupe and I, usually. Sometimes the other adults, though. Oh—” she remembers the bite of the outdoors from the balcony. “I should get a jacket or a sweater. Sorry, it’ll only take a bit.”

So they part ways, and Izumi tries to reorient herself. She wonders if she’s bitten off more than she can chew, but she’s certain it’ll be fine. They’ll talk about directing, maybe, then she’ll ask him other questions. Other, undecided questions. Something hot curls inside her uncomfortably, the same feeling that’s been plaguing her all day.

When she comes back down the stairs, jacket over her short sleeves, she takes a deep breath.

In that moment, Sakuya’s eye catches her’s, and Tasuku gives her a nod when Sakuya takes off from his side to meet her. Izumi can’t help but feel calmed by Sakuya’s presence.

“Are you okay?” He says in a hushed voice. “You left really quickly earlier.”

“When? Just now?”

“No, no, I mean when you went to the balcony,” Sakuya pauses. “Are you okay?” he repeats, softer, this time. His eyes are wide, and when he reaches for Izumi’s hand, she curls her fingers around his. This is something that Sakuya has learned through being around everyone, Izumi remembers; at the beginning of Mankai’s rebirth, he was hesitant to reach for people.

She wonders if Mankai has changed her, too. Her mother always called her rambunctious when she was a kid, and she would cling to Yukio whenever he came home, so it’s not like she and Sakuya are similar in that sense of distance, but maybe it’s something else. Maybe, for her, she’s become able to breach an emotional distance.

But even if it hasn’t, and she’s exactly the same, then hopefully she’s been able to help others, like Sakuya, find out how to get closer.

“I—Yes.” She stumbles over the word. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. Dad and I are going to go out to get some drinks, and I’ll ask him some things. But…” she bites her lip.

Sakuya sucks in a breath. “But what?”

“It’s so hard to be around him,” Izumi answers quietly. “I’m afraid I’m going to blow up on him and—” she can picture it in her head now. Izumi isn’t an angry person, and she prides herself in her ability to forgive, but with Yukio she’s just _upset._ He left her, and it burns. She knows that by saying any of that to him, it would make everything harder. “I can’t let that happen.”

Her lip is trembling.

Sakuya frowns. “Do you want to stay here? You don’t have to go with him. We can help you.” His other hand, the one not holding her’s, goes to her shoulder. It’s solid and comforting.

“No, I have to,” Izumi says. “Otherwise, I won’t know what to do. How to figure any of this out.” It catches in her throat. She shuts her eyes. “I’ll come home after asking him about everything, and maybe I’ll understand why he had to leave…”

“Okay,” Sakuya whispers, and Izumi opens her eyes. “If you need to. Just remember that you don’t have to bear this alone. And if you don’t understand why he left, then that’s okay too. If you don’t figure him out, you’re still not alone.”

Izumi stares at Sakuya. She nods.

Sakuya squeezes her hand tighter. “I’m sure it’ll work out, Izumi.” His smile isn’t as bright as usual, but it’s softness clings to Izumi. Her eyes burn with unshed tears. “I’ll wait for you to come back, okay? Come home any time. I’ll stay up for you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Izumi says, struggling to stop her voice from wavering.

“I will,” Sakuya says firmly, and in his eyes, Izumi can see the sort of conviction that made him keep Mankai alive—the desperation that turns to optimistic hope. It floods into her. _The show must go on._ “Because we’re family.” He doesn’t hesitate.

“We’re family,” Izumi echoes with a wobbly, sincere smile. She wipes the beginnings of tears out of her eyes before she steps outside, letting go of Sakuya’s hand.

When she walks outside to meet her father, and he turns towards her, she doesn’t see herself in him like everyone else seems to. She sees a man who’s made mistakes, ones she’s not sure she can forgive. When she thinks of herself, all that’s reflected from him is an undying love for theater, but just like her actors’ love for the stage isn’t the same as her own, the way she found herself here is completely different from her father’s.

If she fails and falls apart, or can’t get the words out, or is crushed by the heaviness of their nonexistent relationship—she has a family to go home to.

* * *

“Did you care?” Izumi asks Yukio when the conversation has fizzled out, the awkwardness pulling even when they talk about directing. She tries not to think about the void at her side where she’d usually be surrounded by her actors.

It’s her first time drinking with her father, but Azuma isn’t there to laugh while passing her another drink, Itaru isn’t there to chime in with his comments whenever he looks up from his phone, Sakyo isn’t going to examine the pricing of every drink, Chikage and Hisoka won’t compete to see who can drink more… and all the rest of them, too. She’s learned their habits, their gestures, and the bar feels empty without them.

“About what?” Yukio asks, and it’s—not quite fragile, but something else: an off-beat tone of suspicion, the question rising like he understands but doesn’t want to. Izumi’s not sure what’s true, but she meets his eyes as he asks, and finds no answers in them.

“I,” she pauses, “I mean about the actors. About Mankai. You’ve seen them all again, and you even got to direct for the original members again. So… Did you care?” She shifts in her seat, uncrosses her legs.

Yukio’s eyes soften. “Of course.”

“Then why,” Izumi keeps her voice steady like she would when breaking up one of Banri and Juza’s fights, “did you leave like that? And make another theater overseas…”

“Because I had to.”

 _Did you have to leave me, too?_ She bites her lip. Drinks more alcohol, and hopes that it won’t make her more angry, or more volatile. She’d like it if she could turn full director mode and have a conversation with him about her beloved theater without any of the baggage. And yet, somehow, it just feels wrong, like the truth is sinking desperately into her very bones.

“Right,” she says. He leans on his elbows. She watches him. They’re left in a fragile standstill, where Izumi could accuse him of terrible things—and maybe if she were stronger, she would do it.

“How did you meet Reni?” her father asks, at last shattering the illusion that Izumi can say anything to make him explain.

“Ah, Kamikizaka, he…” she grimaces. “He sent an actor to infiltrate Mankai, to force us to shut down our shows from the inside, though he didn’t succeed… then we had an act-off with him, which,” she smiles proudly, picking her raw emotions up and hiding them behind her love for her actors, “we did win. That let us pay off the debt we were in, of course. But he and I only really began to know each other after our second act-off, with Stray Devil Blues.”

“Wow,” Yukio says, “I never thought he’d try and do something like that. He was trying to stop Mankai, huh? Yuzo told me, but I kinda thought it was an exaggeration.” He laughs.

The laughter is sour in the air. Izumi likes Reni now, will forgive him even if he says he doesn’t deserve it, but Yukio doesn’t know the extent of it. He wasn’t there for the drawn out days, watching Taichi struggle and grasp for a place to belong, or Tsumugi’s lack of confidence, the longing looks that he tried to hide from everyone else—even Tasuku’s own burdens from his time under Reni. Yukio knows none of it.

Izumi made the choice to let go of Reni’s mistakes because he’s changed, and because he began to help them. The consequences have been weighed, the other members agreeing with her decision. It is not a choice made lightly, because Izumi may forgive easily, but she’s still going to protect her actors first.

Yukio has seen Reni in more lights than Izumi, though, surely; when they knew each other and started the company together. Those are things about him that Izumi doesn’t know, things they haven’t spoken about.

“What do you think of Kamikizaka?” Izumi asks, leaning her head on her palm. “I mean, he told me that he has this… grudge against you. But was it really so bad?”

Yukio shrugs. “Well, he was always a bit…” he struggles for the word, finger tapping on his forehead, “dramatic? It went over my head a lot.”

Izumi guesses that’s true. Yukio had always been oblivious, maybe to more than just Reni’s resentment, but also to the feelings of a little girl chasing after her father, or the dreams of an entire company that he left behind. And yet he’s a director loved by many, despite all of that.

...Is he loved by her?

“Hey,” Izumi brings her glass to her lips, waits for Yukio’s eyes to meet hers. In the shadow they’re seated in, in the bar so familiar but so strange with the addition of her father, she can’t even tell what his eye color is. Is it the same as her’s? “Am I allowed to be dramatic, like him?”

A laugh sputters out of Yukio. Izumi’s eyebrows furrow. Her hand shakes as she sets her glass back down.

“What?” Yukio smiles.

“No, that came out wrong,” Izumi says, and her mouth is dry, some sort of boldness clenching at her heart and tugging. This is not stage fright. This isn’t acting at all, not like the cheerfulness she pushed onto her face as Yukio stepped into Mankai’s dorms and she welcomed him with the arms of a daughter who was unsure where she stood, yet chose not to show it. “Am I allowed to be bitter—to be _angry?_ ”

Habit crashes down upon her; her eyes jump away from Yukio, too scared to see his reaction. Some habits never truly die, like wanting to be nice, to be strong, to make her father love her once and for all.

* * *

Yukio was bathed in the light of the sun when he stepped through Mankai’s halls for the first time in over ten years. The light streamed through the windows, and he _ooh_ -ed and _ahh_ -ed at all the little changes, the similarities.

Izumi followed him—what else could she do? Even though she’d long since stopped crying, bottled up her loose emotions into something more easily contained, it was still hard.

She told Omi she was fine and thanked him for comforting her. She told Masumi to stop hovering near her, that she’d be fine. As the director, she and Matsukawa should be the ones to show Yukio around and introduce everyone, before the other original Mankai members arrived. Masumi frowned, but conceded to her wishes. The rest of them, too; if they noticed anything wrong, they didn’t mention it.

Matsukawa chattered happily, and Yukio smiled. Izumi did not, except when they turned towards her.

Yukio’s face was different from her memories. Maybe it was the height—even though she’d mostly been done growing by the time he vanished, she still remembered him in flashes of brilliance from her childhood, bending down to pat her head. Now, his face had the same light signs of aging as the other original members. Time passing wasn’t strange, but it stretched the years between them until Yukio seemed almost like a stranger.

She finally smiled for real when they sat down for a late lunch—or maybe an early dinner—with all the curry she’d made, explaining how she made it, rambling over her own feelings.

Yukio smiled, but didn’t comment.

“That’s our director! Always happy to talk about curry!” Matsukawa exclaimed, chest puffing out proudly. He grinned wide, and Izumi laughed.

Footsteps into the room. “Hey hey, you’re bragging about Izumi to the OG Director?” Kazunari grinned widely. “Can I join in? I’m the graphic designer, Kazunari Miyoshi, bee-tee-dubs!” He flashed a peace sign in Yukio’s direction. “Gimme some of that top quality curry, Izumi!”

Everything felt lighter, like Kazunari’s entrance lifted weight from her shoulders. “Yes, of course, please have some! Dad, we’ve got a lot of people here who are both actors _and_ helping backstage. Tsuzuru is our scriptwriter, Yuki is our costume designer, Omi’s the photographer, Azami’s our makeup artist…” She numbered them out on her fingers. “They’re all really great!”

Yukio grinned. “That’s amazing!”

“Totes!” Kazunari sat down across from Yukio. “She really pulled us all together. We owe a lot to her.” Kazunari’s smile softened, and when he glanced at Izumi, suddenly she felt like crying from how sincerely happy he looked.

There’d been a lot of change since she joined Mankai. There were a lot of people she could take refuge in now, away from her father.

These were people who didn’t know Yukio. And even Sakyo, who did, wouldn't judge any level of bitterness from her towards Yukio. Izumi wanted Yukio here, she really did, and maybe it was just a selfish desire for her past to reclaim her, Yukio sweeping away all the pain from her childhood, even if Izumi knew that was impossible. After all, his absence would always be part of that childhood.

He hurt her, as much as she admired him.

“You’re working hard to create a place for them all to bloom,” Yukio said, his smile curling upwards. He didn’t look at Kazunari. “I’m proud of you.”

The words were heavy. Years ago, she would’ve given anything for her father to be there and say that to her. Maybe even before then she’d wished for him to come home from his company, to look at how hard she tried at acting, glittering on the stage where she made her worst  
mistakes. What Izumi wouldn’t have given for his belief in her back then.

A flash of anger ran through her. _Why weren’t you there before?_

She pushed it down, but couldn’t force out a smile. Kazunari patted her shoulder as he left and asked, hushed and secretive, if she was fine. She just nodded. Something heavy sat in her throat, unable to be voiced.

Yukio wasn’t quite a stranger, but even in the light which showed everything about him openly, Izumi still couldn’t help but realize that her actors shone so much brighter than him. Yes, she’d watched them bloom like he said, but it wasn’t by chance. It was because they were all trying their best to unfurl their petals with her help. It was something she’d seen with her own eyes.

Her father, as bright as he was, couldn’t compare.

* * *

Izumi holds in her tears until the door shuts behind her. After that, she lets it all out, back colliding against the wood and face wet. Her nose is running, and she knows that it’s not pretty.

Someone is walking from inside to the entrance, and she tries to hide her face, wipe her tears away from her eyes before they arrive, but she chokes out a sob, and the footsteps get faster. Izumi tries her best to get herself back into her feet, to steady herself, but she can’t do it before Sakuya appears in front of her.

“Izumi,” he says, “Izumi, are you okay?!” His hands find their ways to her shoulders.

“I’m—I’m okay,” she says with a smile, and her shoulders are lighter than it has been since she found out that Yukio would be able to return to Japan. Tears continue to leak out of her eyes. “I have to get my shoes off, Sakuya, I’ll tell you about it in a moment.”

Sakuya doesn’t leave her side, shoulder nearly bumping with her’s as she puts on her slippers. She can practically feel the nervous energy radiating off of him.

“Thank you, by the way,” she says, and wills herself not to stutter out another sob. “For waiting for me. I didn’t know I needed that until you said it. Until I knew that I could come home to you, Sakuya. You and the others have built this home just as much, if not more, than me.” Her breath catches, and she frantically uses her sleeve to stop the tears running down her cheeks. “You—I can’t believe it, sometimes. Having such a large, real family.”

Sakuya crushes her in a hug without another word.

He’s crying too, she realizes. He’s not crying as much as she is, but his tears are warm on her shoulder. She wraps her arms around him as she explains what happened with her father.

“I didn’t want to be angry at him,” she murmurs into Sakuya’s hair, “I wanted to think he was trying his best. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help feeling abandoned, so I told him about it. And we agreed that we’d both leave the bar, for now. I don’t know what’ll happen now.”

“Are you scared?” Sakuya asks, pulling away but still holding onto her shoulders. His eyes widen as he asks; he’s staring at her, searching her face.

His hand leaves her back to wipe away the remnants of tears on his face. Izumi sniffs as they leave the hug.

“No,” Izumi says. “I don’t think I am. I’m glad that I was able to say it. And it was because of your support. My home in Mankai wouldn’t be the same without you.” She ruffles his hair, and he ducks his head. “I’m a little exhausted from it all, but... “ she pauses. “I’m home.”

When he looks back up, he’s grinning brightly, like a light guiding her back towards Mankai after her hurt came pouring out. “Ah! Welcome home, Izumi. I’m glad you’re okay! When you cried I was so worried…” He shakes his head. “Everyone’s waiting for you inside, by the way.”

“Everyone…?”

And they are. And they welcome her home with open arms, and apologize for not thinking of her feelings more, for not thinking of how her history with Yukio would’ve affected her when they encouraged her to invite him to Mankai. She tells them that it’s okay, that it’ll work out, and she knows that she is their director—their _only_ director, because Mankai is her own now. All the ways that Yukio had built it into itself are only reflections of the past.

Izumi will make sure that this, too, will bloom into a beautiful flower unlike anything he’d done.

When it does, she’ll be happy, her fate in her own hands.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not sure if anyone could figure it out, but when Masumi says, “I think I’ve been seeing you wrong,” to Izumi it’s because he’s started to realize that he has platonic feelings towards her, not romantic. Yes, it’s incredibly self indulgent. But I didn’t think he’d outright say it if he came to that conclusion, and if he had it might’ve taken away from the focus of the fic, so I ended up making it vague...
> 
> Also, I was somehow able to fit in a mention of every single Mankai member. I'm proud of myself for that, lmao.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!!


End file.
